“It should be as your teshuvah, in case you were mistaken. Although, sheifelah, I’m not convinced that you were”

I t is a busy day and I’m moving quickly to its rhythm. I’m just a streak of color on this Friday afternoon racing down Park Avenue between the pharmacy and the hosiery store.

Her jangling cup and weary voice are thrust into my sweaty line of vision; her black baggy button-down shirt hanging to mid-thigh on her heavy body. I look down and see a pair of fuzzy pajama socks stuffed into her worn black shoes the socks I just bought my young children for a bedtime bribe. Socks I just bought at the dollar store.

I reach into my purse and am disconcerted; I only have small change. A dime a nickel another dime. My eyes meet hers and move quickly over her black snood pushed low on her grimy face. I know my money is not enough for whatever it is she needs.

“This is all I have on me. I’m sorry. Good Shabbos. Be well.”

She is not quite as ready to part as I am.

“I need more. I do. I have a young baby and he needs formula. I have six children and they need food. Come with me into the grocery and buy me something on your card.”

I am taken aback. This interchange is shaping into something eerily similar to a story I read in these pages some weeks ago. But I’m not comfortable. What will happen if she racks up a large bill? If she wants to purchase many items? I’m in a rush myself. And I am nervous at the thought of perusing the aisles of Lipa’s with a beggar woman. I’m aware of a sense of pride too prohibiting me from being seen with this woman too much longer. I’m uncomfortable at the thought that this pride could stop me from doing a good deed but still I am more uncomfortable at the thought of leading this woman into the store with me.

“I’m sorry. I’m not going to do that. Good luck. Good Shabbos.”

I turn and leave. And behind me her voice carries.

“How could you? How could you?”

I hurry away angry guilt-ridden. Should I go to the ATM on Bernard and take out some cash and give it to her? That’s a minimum twenty. I don’t really have the money for that. But I’m not giving maaser these days as my rav has instructed and he did advise me that in order to fulfill my tzedakah obligation I should still be giving to those who ask. Here was my woman who asked.

Still. I see her begging often. Maybe she doesn’t really have six children. Maybe she’s not legit at all. Maybe she’s not even a Jew. I’ve heard these stories where women put on tichels for begging. Maybe. Maybe not. I feel horrible can’t swipe her fuzzy pajama socks from my mind. I could have done it. I should have gone with her into Lipa’s and bought a few things for her.

She’s not stable says my reasonable voice strongly resolutely. Or maybe that’s my unreasonable voice. It’s hard to know. At a loss I call my mother.

Her advice is perfect.

“Maybe just start carrying five dollars in your wallet, always. Just in case. It should be as your teshuvah, in case you were mistaken. Although, sheifelah, I’m not convinced that you were.”

Her idea infuses me with post-guilt energy. I put the five-dollar bill into my wallet immediately. It sits in its own pocket, my strategy for always having a something for the beggar, should I meet her again. For any beggar, really, but it’s mainly for my friend in the fuzzy socks.

The bill sits in my wallet for weeks. It sits on the edge of my mind as well, a pair of fuzzy socks in my peripheral vision as I walk. I find myself constantly needing five dollars in change, but this bill has a purpose far greater than petty cash.

And then it comes. I look down and see the fuzzy socks stuffed into worn black shoes, like she hasn’t changed clothes once in the past three weeks. Perhaps she hasn’t.

I stop in front of my beggar. I reach into my wallet’s special pocket and remove the bill.

“Special for you,” I murmur. “Good Shabbos.”

Her eyes crinkle with warmth as she murmurs something as well. She has changed me, this woman; she has brought a new, thoughtful practice into my life. I stop walking mid-sidewalk and move another five-dollar bill into the special pocket in my wallet, ready for anyone who may ask.

(Originally featured in Family First Issue 559)